


But I Come Back To The Water

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: Take Me To The Stars [16]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Beaches, Broadchurch Crossover, F/F, Spatial Genetic Multiplicity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2019-12-30 12:23:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18315206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: Clara and the Doctor find themselves in a sleepy seaside town, and encounter averyfamiliar face.





	But I Come Back To The Water

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty much pure silliness inspired by my recent Broadchurch rewatch. Hella descriptions of scenery because I've been to where it's filmed and it's beautiful.

The Doctor and Clara had not, in fact, been trying to land here, and yet somehow the TARDIS’s usual groaning and wheezing has steadfastly refused to take them to their intended destination and had chucked them out here instead. Where exactly ‘here’ is, they’re unsure, but it’s a pretty enough place, Clara supposes – there’s the saline tang of the sea in the air, which reminds her of her hometown, and yet the place is unafflicted by tourists or rides or imposing buildings or any of the other trappings of a tourist spot. It’s early morning, so she supposes there’s that working in its favour – places like this, pretty and picture-postcard perfect, always have tourists, but they’ll still be tucked away in their picturesque bed and breakfasts, dreaming of seagulls and chips and ice cream and all the other clichés that come with seaside towns. 

Beside her, the Doctor takes her hand and gives it a squeeze. “I love the beach,” she enthuses, her face lighting up. “And I can smell the sea, which definitely means beach.”

Clara looks around them, frowning a little as she does so. There’s a marina directly ahead of them, and a battered, over-the-hill newsagents with the shutters down to their right. It’s early enough that there’s not even the usual traffic of paperboys (or girls, she reprimands herself) heading in and out with bags over their shoulder – do people still even read newspapers, Clara wonders – and the place looks deserted. The marina ahead of them is filled with fishing boats and small craft – nothing that screams ‘tourism;’ more practicality than frivolity – and across from that there’s an old hall surrounded by nautical paraphernalia. There’s a line of food kiosks with brightly-painted signs hawking their wares off to one side – these alone signal to Clara that there’s some life to be had in this place, but there’s no sign of any beach.

“But…” 

“Trust me,” the Doctor grins, practically fizzing with excitement. “We’ll follow my nose.”

Clara raises her eyebrows but says nothing, allowing herself to be taken by the hand and dragged around the periphery of the marina. Looking down into it, she takes stock of the huge, straggly lumps of black seaweed affixed to each jetty; the floating ephemeral-green of more seaweed floating lazily in the water itself, and the familiar sight of limpets and barnacles and other molluscs she can’t recall the names of – the flora and fauna that make up a quintessential part of the seaside, and remind her of a past that is never quite forgotten. 

The Doctor hasn’t the time to reflect on any of this; she’s striding with confidence around the marina, over ancient, worn flagstones, past a curiously round building that sits back from the road, looking for all the world like a metallic salt cellar, and then they’re out on a stone pier, and Clara catches sight of the view for the first time. There’s a beach, alright – although they’ll have to circle the marina, back the way they came, to get to it – and it’s perfect. The sand ranges from soft beige by the town to a warm terracotta by the shore, hued darker by the waves, and huge, burnt-yellow cliffs dominate the skyline behind the gently undulating shore. There’s one or two tiny figures, ant-like in size, wandering along the beach, perhaps enjoying the peace and quiet, but otherwise it’s deserted and entirely tranquil. It’s magnificently imposing and enough to rob her of the ability to speak for several seconds, and even the Doctor is silent as they look out over the water, taking in the view with awed reverence.

“Wow,” the Doctor says after several moments, nodding her head approvingly. “I can see why people want to visit here.” 

“Me too.” 

“I’ve been here before,” the Doctor says in a sudden, unprompted rush. “Millennia ago. It’s called the Jurassic Coast, this part of the world, and I was here with the dinosaurs for a while. Made a few pals. Haven’t been back since; couldn’t bear the thought of seeing where they all lost their lives when… well, you know, _the thing_ happened. But this is… beautiful. It’s a beautiful place for them to be at peace.”

Clara leans against her partner, sensing her sadness and resting her head on the Doctor’s shoulder in an attempt to counter it. There’s no judgement between them; no assertion that they were only dinosaurs, and it was lifetimes ago. Clara knows how much every life means to her partner, and the loss of any friends hits her hard. 

“Shall we go and see what the view’s like from the top?” Clara murmurs softly, knowing a distraction is needed, and after a moment, the Doctor nods – just once, but it’s a start. 

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “Yeah, that’d be good. I bet it’s impressive – you must be able to see for miles.” 

“And then we could have chips,” Clara suggests, knowing how much the Time Lady relishes the merest suggestion of food. “Or eat there.” She points towards a café on the edge of the beach, little more than a converted shed, and the Doctor lights up. 

“Yeah,” she says with more enthusiasm. “Yeah, we could. Or we could have both. Chips and the café. And an ice cream, too. I’ll protect you from the seagulls, don’t you worry.” 

“You don’t have to-” Clara begins to protest, feeling the need to remind the Doctor that she’s from a town in which seagulls were the bane of everyone’s existence, but the Time Lady has strode off, hands shoved deep in her pockets, as she heads back the way they came. “Hey! Wait for me!” 

The Doctor slows her pace as Clara jogs to catch her up, and in companionable silence they loop back around the marina and head towards the beach. As the Doctor’s feet hit the sand, she breaks into an enormous grin, racing up the gentle incline that separates the beach from the town and then spreading her arms triumphantly at the summit. “Look at that!” she enthuses. “What a view, eh?” 

Clara scales the incline a second or two later, smiling as they look down at the waves. “Quite a view,” she concurs, feeling the same flush of familiarity that she feels on any and every beach they encounter – the sense that this is _her place_. “Really-” 

A small child, no older than four or five, runs up to them and tugs on the Doctor’s coat. Her blonde hair is pulled into bunches, and she’s clutching a shell in one hand. “Mummy,” the little girl says insistently, looking up at the Doctor with enormous hazel eyes. “Mummy, I’m tired and my legs hurt.”

“I…” the Doctor blinks down at her in abject confusion, before crouching down and looking the little girl in the face. An odd expression crosses her face, one that Clara can’t read, but the Time Lady smiles warmly at the child all the same. Clara feels her heart lurch with pride – this is the Doctor in her natural habitat, doing what she does best. “I’m not your mummy, sweetheart. Where’s your mummy?” 

“Mummy,” the little girl says again, sticking her thumb in her mouth and shaking her head as she attempts to nuzzle into the Doctor’s arms. “Mummy, home.” 

“Lizzie! What have I told you about strangers?! God, I’m sorry,” a similarly blonde-haired girl jogs up to them – she can’t be much older than the teenagers that Clara used to teach – and reaches for the little girl.  “Lizzie-”

“She’s alright,” the Doctor says warmly, looking up at her, and the girl recoils as though she’s been hit. Her mouth falls open in horror, and she looks at the Doctor with absolute stupefaction. The strength of her reaction is enough to make Clara take a step forward, putting her hand on the Doctor’s shoulder in warning. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Who the bloody hell are you?” the girl blurts, snatching the little girl – Lizzie, apparently – into her arms and clinging onto her protectively. “What do you think you’re doing with her?” 

“I don’t know-” the Doctor begins, straightening up, but before she can finish her sentence, a woman has ascended the sand behind the teenager, her eyes fixed on Lizzie, intent on making faces at the little girl to make her laugh. She looks up at the Doctor and Clara at last, and the three of them find themselves lost for words. 

This woman, whoever she may be, is the Doctor. Or the Doctor is her – Clara isn’t really sure who came first, but they’re identical. Dark-haired to the Doctor’s blonde, the stranger is looking at them with rising panic, and she takes Lizzie from the teenager and holds onto her like a lifeline, setting her jaw and raising her chin defiantly. The little girl is looking between the Doctor and the woman – from her body language, Clara is reasonably sure she’s Lizzie’s mother – with awestruck wonder, and it’s Lizzie that breaks the terse silence. 

“Mummy, there’s two of you!”

“Who the _hell_ are you?” the woman asks, mirroring the teenager’s words of seconds earlier. “Who are you, and what are you doing in Broadchurch?”

“We’re just passing through,” the Doctor says in a low, placating voice, holding her hands up in a carefully calculated gesture. “We’re just visiting.”

“Who _are_ you?” the stranger asks again, her voice breaking. “I’m serious, who the hell are you? Because I’ve had enough weirdness and horrible-ness in my life these past few years, and I don’t need any more.”

“My name’s the Doctor,” the Time Lady tells her in a gentle tone, offering her a reassuring smile. “And this is Clara, my partner. We’re travellers.”

“What, like pikeys?” the teenager interjects. “Cos if so, we don’t want your sort around here. Piss off.”

“Chlo!” the woman scowls at her, placing one hand on Lizzie’s head. The little girl is still entirely captivated by the two women, the seashell clutched in her tiny fist all but forgotten in favour of these new exciting people. “Not in front of your sister.” 

“No, not like that,” Clara interjects, shaking her head. “We just travel all over, seeing wonders. We’ve just been to Paris.” 

Not strictly a lie. The fact it was Paris in the year 1923 seems irrelevant. 

“So what the hell are you doing in Broadchurch? It’s not exactly cosmopolitan, is it?” 

“We just wanted to see the sights,” Clara shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant. “I’m from Blackpool, so it reminds me of home. The Doctor’s from… Huddersfield, so she hasn’t seen the sea much. Thought we’d have a day out.”

“What’s her deal? What’s she a doctor of? Is this some trick?”

“I’m a doctor of everything, but mainly people,” the Doctor tells her, taking out the psychic paper and holding it up as she speaks. It’s not strictly a lie, Clara reasons, and although the meaning is ambiguous it seems to placate the stranger. “I didn’t mean to startle you… sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Beth,” the woman admits reluctantly, shifting Lizzie onto her hip and extending a hand, which the Doctor shakes. “Beth Latimer. You’re from the charity?” 

“Yes,” Clara says emphatically, forcing herself to smile. “Yes, we are.” 

“Well,” Beth’s demeanour softens incrementally, and she smiles at them for the first time. Clara blinks hard – even their smiles are identical, and there’s something disquieting about that. “Why don’t we go and get something to eat, and you can tell us about your travels?” 

“Mum!” Chloe protests, looking aghast by the very suggestion. “Mum, they might be nutters, or journalists, or both.” 

“We’re not journalists,” Clara tells her, grimacing at the insinuation. “I’m a teacher, and the Doctor helps people. That’s all. Nothing suspicious or weird there.” 

“Except the fact you look just like my mum,” Chloe mutters sourly. “Which is bloody weird.”

“Chlo, stop bloody swearing,” Beth warns her, then claps a hand over her own mouth. “Sorry, Lizzie.” 

“Mummy said a bad word,” the little girl dissolves into giggles, then squirms out of her mother’s arms and crosses the space between them before wrapping her arms around the Doctor’s legs and burying her face in them as she chuckles with mirth. “Hello, Mummy-Too.” 

“Hi,” the Doctor breathes, looking down at her with a deep sense of affection that fills Clara with love and sadness and yearning all at once, and it’s Lizzie’s open-hearted acceptance of the Doctor that seems to encourage Chloe to drop her guard.

“I’m Chloe,” she says at last, offering them a shy smile, looking down at her sister protectively. “And I suppose you could be OK. If not, well… we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Well,” Clara grins. “That’s a ringing endorsement, if ever I heard one.”


End file.
